Tuesday, July 02, 2013

Weird British men kissing me

What
you need to know before I dive into this is that while I’ve gotten to the point
where I can talk to musicians and most other people, I still freak out when it
come to authors, specifically those I admire/am a fangirl of. I think I
understand why: I want to connect with them on a professional level, want to
interact as a colleague (not necessarily a peer – I have no such illusions).
So, the result with some authors is terror. Okay, that’s an overstatement. The
result is anxiety, nervousness, and a running commentary of doom in the back of
my head.

The
only other time I had the opportunity to meet Neil, it was just after my dad
had died and I had an ear infection that meant I couldn’t hear out of one ear,
but I was determined to go to his talk, and we managed to shimmy our way into
the signing line reasonably early. If we hadn’t, I couldn’t have stayed. That
time, I managed to stammer that I was a writer and that I had his poem
“Instructions” next to my writing computer, and he said that was being made into
a book and I said I know and Ken got a picture of us together and then we went
home and I think I slept for a week, trying to recover. (The antibiotics kicked
in a couple of days later and I was so happy to be able to hear again.)

So,
this time. The trip to Glendale was rather horrid, but even as it was
happening, there was a level of amusement, as in, well, of course there will be
mayhem and confusion. I left about half an hour later than I planned,
discovered a tear in my skirt after getting gas (it didn’t show much thanks to
the lining), hit traffic, had the GPS take me on a weird route (101 to 23 to
118 to 5 to wandering through Glendale, WTF?), hit traffic again, then the GPS
froze and I had to pull off and of course I picked an exit that didn't have an
easy place to stop. Then I parked in a parking garage that was much too far
away and dumped me into a scary alley and it was beastly hot, so I went back
and left and drove around in circles until I found a closer parking garage that
still wasn’t that close. And when I
asked a random person where the theatre was, I was directed to a movie theatre
on a second level with a broken escalator. The bottom line was I arrived 10
minutes before the reception started, which was just enough time to collect my
books and buy a bottle of water.

Although,
did I mention that around the time the GPS froze – about an hour before I got
into the theatre – I already had to pee?

So
I got inside, found the bathroom, found the food (so much for arriving early
enough to grab dinner…but the reception had curried chicken sliders and caprese
skewers and some lovely cheeses along with crackers and bread and also a variety
of fruit, so I wasn’t going to starve), and found my friends Rosemary and
Randy.

(If
you’ve read this far, you no doubt wish to hell I’d get to the Neil part.
Thanks for sticking with me. We’re almost there. Although I didn’t know it at
the time.)

The
reception was 5:30 to 6:30, and around 6:10 we were sort of clumped near the
theatre doors so we could get decent seats. (There were about 200 of us, I
think, and we got first choice of seats before they let everyone else in.) I
commented that I’d thought the reception included Neil, but apparently not, and
Rosemary went off the bathroom and when she came off I went off to the bathroom
and when I came back, she and Randy had vanished. That’s when I noticed a knot
of people with Neil in the center.

Damn
bathroom break.

I
had a copy of Written on the Coast,
my first fantasy/science fiction collection, which I wanted to give to Neil. I
hastily scribbled an inscription and then used the book to block the glaring sun
through the pretty Art Deco window and waited to see if I’d have the chance to say
hello.

Long
story short, eventually I did. I didn’t want to take up too much of his time
because as far as I was concerned, everyone who’d paid for the reception should
have the chance to talk to him. So I thrust out the book and said something to
the effect of, “You've been an inspiration to me, and I wanted to give you a
copy of my first published collection.”

(Note:
In situations like this, my brain goes into survival mode and focuses on things
like me not falling over, and making coherent sentences. So I frequently end up
with a gist of what someone has said to me, but not the actual quote.)

Neil
looked at the book and saw that one of my writing mentors, Dean Wesley Smith,
had written the foreword (for it says this on the cover). And he said something
to the effect of “Oh, Dean...I know Dean; he's [a good guy].”

I
didn’t realize until I saw the photos that Rosemary took that Neil had flipped
the book over. At the top is a quote from Dean’s foreword: “One of the best
writers working today.” I’m still gobsmacked by this.

Here
is Neil looking at the book, and the back of my head:

If
anything else was said, my brain didn’t retain it. All I know is that Neil said
thank you and then leaned towards me. I thought he was going to hug me, because
he’d just hugged several people per their request, but instead he kissed my
cheek. I'm now completely flustered. He pulls back and says thank you, and in
my confusion all I can say is thank you (for kissing me? I don’t know!). Derp. Then
I backed up to let people fill in front of me, and escaped to my friends, and
ate several more caprese skewers because I was still starving. I also texted
Ken:

Me:
Neil kissed me.:-)

Ken:
Where?

Me:
In the lobby.:-)

Oh,
I am just the funniest person ever. Thank the gods he loves me. (When he called
me the next day, he said “So, last night you were off being kissed by weird
British men?” Yes, darling. Yes, I was.)

Anyway,
we went in and found seats in the fifth row, dead center, with nobody blocking
my view. (Last month, when Ken and I went to a screening of Coraline followed by a Q&A with
Neil, we were in the fourth row and there was a tall guy in the second row who
kept blocking my view. It was Randy. Oh.)

The
interviewer was a senior editor at Entertainment
Weekly. Neil read from his new book, The
Ocean at the End of the Lane, they chatted back and forth, he answered one
audience question (from notecards we could write on and pass back), and then
the guy who runs the talk series said Stephen King had emailed with a question.
(Guess that trumped the question I'd emailed in!) He then read from his
forthcoming children’s book, Fortunately,
the Milk, which was really funny - his delivery helps. He said he hadn’t
read it on previous stops on this tour, but he was inspired by the venue (which
was, indeed, a lovely Deco theatre. I am also a fangirl of Deco theatres,
thanks to the one in my hometown).

Now,
one thing I hadn’t counted on was that I was exhausted. Really, deeply
exhausted. If I’d closed my eyes during the talk, I would’ve nodded off (and I
can almost never sleep unless I'm prone). It didn’t help that the theatre’s air
conditioning clearly couldn’t handle the load. I was honestly concerned about
driving home, and if the signing was going to take too long, I would probably
leave.

After
about a half-hour wait, they brought us up by rows for the signing. I estimated
that it took about 15 minutes per row. Thankfully, once we stood up, I felt
perkier.

The
deal was that we could get one book personalized, and he'd also sign as many
copies of Ocean at the End of the Lane
as you wanted. I hadn’t been able to find the book I wanted to bring (for the second time – argh! It must be
packed with the nonfiction even though it's media-related and should be with
those books), but along with Ocean,
the other book we received as part of the package deal was Make Good Art, and I thought that would be perfect for the
personalized book.

When
I got up to him, he looked at my name (on a stickie, handed to me earlier),
looked up and said hello Dayle.* And I blurted, "Hi, I gave you my book
earlier" (or something like that). And he said "Oh, right! Anybody
Dean endorses is someone I'm interested in reading" (or words to that
effect). My brain screamed "Eep!" and I said "Well, I hope you
enjoy reading it," and he said "I'm sure I will" and I said (as
I was being shuffled away) "I hope you can find the time to read it"
and he said "It might be a while." And then I took pictures of
Rosemary and Randy getting their books signed before I was booted off the
stage.

We
had this conversation while he was signing Make
Good Art, and this is what he wrote:

By
comparison, the drive home was uneventful. Also, the 134 (which is an easy,
direct route: 134 --> 101 --> home) was two blocks from the venue,
begging the question of why the GPS had routed me up the 23 on the way out. I
picked up the obligatory post-event In-N-Out hamburger and ate it at home with
a glass of wine and purring kittays, and then fell over.

I
then read Ocean in two days….

---

*I
deeply admire how he tries to make everything personal and, even if just for a
moment, honestly interact with each fan. I can’t imagine how draining that is.
Respect.

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About Me

DAYLE A. DERMATIS has been called “one of the best writers working today” by USA Today bestselling author Dean Wesley Smith. Under various pseudonyms (and sometimes with coauthors), she’s sold several novels and more than 100 short stories in multiple genres. She lives and works in California within scent of the ocean, and in her spare time follows Styx around the country and travels the world, all of which inspires her writing. She loves music, cats, Wales, TV, magic, laughter, and defying expectations. To find out where she is today, check out www.DayleDermatis.com.